Wolfish
25-10-2004, 18:02
Spin Off of: http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=366714
*Shadwan Islands, Eastern Red Sea*
The Wolfish Task Force Bravo moved slowly through the channel – overhead Joint Strike Fighters circled in nervous anticipation – something…anything going wrong at this point would have disastrous consequences.
“Flight Command – this is Foxtrot 1, we’re getting a little low on fuel – request vector to the CSA (common support aircraft) for re-fueling.”
“Roger Foxtrot 1 – come to FL28 – bearing 305.”
The warplane turned in the early morning sunlight – the pilot took a moment to look to the surface as the Wolfish fleet wove its way through 150 warships from not-so-friendly nations, at the eastern end of the Red Sea.
He flipped his radio to squad-intercom, “Jesus – you could basically walk from one ship to another down there.”
“Copy that Wildman – but let’s keep our eyes up here – it’s almost as crowded with loaded fighters.”
“Right.”
The “Wildman” cut back on his power as the jet floated in behind the tanker – the long fuel line waved slightly in the turbulence as the jet slowly approached.
“CSA Zulu – this is Foxtrot 1 – How am looking?”
“Foxtrot – you are smack on…ease your power up…little more…there – we’ve got a green light. Turning on the pumps.”
Wildman could feel the minute vibration as the pumps began filling his tanks with the jet fuel – his attention wandered as he looked back down to the flat surface of the water – the ships continued to pass one another – moving silently past the small islands and rocky shores.
A decidedly unnatural (and unexpected) “clunk” brought his attention back to his current duties.
“FOXTROT 1 – What the HELL are you doing – back away – back away…” came the call from the re-fueller.
While his attention was slack – his aircraft had slipped out of the “slot” for fuelling and was now too high, too fast and way too close to the loaded CSA.
He could hear his radio barking at him as he attempted to re-align his fighter - “BREAK OFF – BREAK OFF”
But it was too late for that – the jet, unhappy about his attempts to re-gain control – got caught in the turbulence coming off the back of the support aircraft – “I’m in trouble” was all he could get out before the fuel hose ripped itself from the funnel at the front of the plane – a brief spray of jet fuel soaked his windscreen before the pumps automatically shut down – but it was enough to distract the pilot further.
He pushed the yoke forward, hoping to gain some speed and distance from the larger, slower fueller – but it was too late – his nose clipped the tail and he watched in horror as the fighter punched a hole through the larger planes fuselage.
“FLIGHT CONTROL – This is Foxtrot 1 – declaring an emergency….I’m… I’m in trouble here….
His transmission was interrupted.
“FLIGHT – CSA Bravo 2- 6 is hit … we’ve lost cabin pressure and fuel containment – I can’t hold it together….”
The two planes began a inharmonious descent towards the sea below – directly over the unnatural gathering of Wolfish and “unfriendly” ships between the rocky islands. Twisted metal mixed with spilling fuel.
“FOXTROT 1 – I’m dropping my weapons…Weapons are secured and unarmed. Dropping now.now.now. Weapons away – I’m bailing out.”
The transmission stopped, leaving the new sound of a homing GPS signal on the bridge of the Command ship, as the two planes continued to spiral in.
In the Flight Command Centre, the Watch Officer was trying to make sense of the chaos.
“Simon – do you have a track on them?”
“Aye Sir – I think their going to miss us….too close to tell.”
“Alright – get the rescue choppers up – Sound SAR Alert.”
“Aye Sir. Sounding alert,” responded another crewman in the dimly lit room.
A klaxon sounded across the fleet as the wreckage continued its rapid descent towards the virtual parking lot of warships in the straights of Shadwan.
*Shadwan Islands, Eastern Red Sea*
The Wolfish Task Force Bravo moved slowly through the channel – overhead Joint Strike Fighters circled in nervous anticipation – something…anything going wrong at this point would have disastrous consequences.
“Flight Command – this is Foxtrot 1, we’re getting a little low on fuel – request vector to the CSA (common support aircraft) for re-fueling.”
“Roger Foxtrot 1 – come to FL28 – bearing 305.”
The warplane turned in the early morning sunlight – the pilot took a moment to look to the surface as the Wolfish fleet wove its way through 150 warships from not-so-friendly nations, at the eastern end of the Red Sea.
He flipped his radio to squad-intercom, “Jesus – you could basically walk from one ship to another down there.”
“Copy that Wildman – but let’s keep our eyes up here – it’s almost as crowded with loaded fighters.”
“Right.”
The “Wildman” cut back on his power as the jet floated in behind the tanker – the long fuel line waved slightly in the turbulence as the jet slowly approached.
“CSA Zulu – this is Foxtrot 1 – How am looking?”
“Foxtrot – you are smack on…ease your power up…little more…there – we’ve got a green light. Turning on the pumps.”
Wildman could feel the minute vibration as the pumps began filling his tanks with the jet fuel – his attention wandered as he looked back down to the flat surface of the water – the ships continued to pass one another – moving silently past the small islands and rocky shores.
A decidedly unnatural (and unexpected) “clunk” brought his attention back to his current duties.
“FOXTROT 1 – What the HELL are you doing – back away – back away…” came the call from the re-fueller.
While his attention was slack – his aircraft had slipped out of the “slot” for fuelling and was now too high, too fast and way too close to the loaded CSA.
He could hear his radio barking at him as he attempted to re-align his fighter - “BREAK OFF – BREAK OFF”
But it was too late for that – the jet, unhappy about his attempts to re-gain control – got caught in the turbulence coming off the back of the support aircraft – “I’m in trouble” was all he could get out before the fuel hose ripped itself from the funnel at the front of the plane – a brief spray of jet fuel soaked his windscreen before the pumps automatically shut down – but it was enough to distract the pilot further.
He pushed the yoke forward, hoping to gain some speed and distance from the larger, slower fueller – but it was too late – his nose clipped the tail and he watched in horror as the fighter punched a hole through the larger planes fuselage.
“FLIGHT CONTROL – This is Foxtrot 1 – declaring an emergency….I’m… I’m in trouble here….
His transmission was interrupted.
“FLIGHT – CSA Bravo 2- 6 is hit … we’ve lost cabin pressure and fuel containment – I can’t hold it together….”
The two planes began a inharmonious descent towards the sea below – directly over the unnatural gathering of Wolfish and “unfriendly” ships between the rocky islands. Twisted metal mixed with spilling fuel.
“FOXTROT 1 – I’m dropping my weapons…Weapons are secured and unarmed. Dropping now.now.now. Weapons away – I’m bailing out.”
The transmission stopped, leaving the new sound of a homing GPS signal on the bridge of the Command ship, as the two planes continued to spiral in.
In the Flight Command Centre, the Watch Officer was trying to make sense of the chaos.
“Simon – do you have a track on them?”
“Aye Sir – I think their going to miss us….too close to tell.”
“Alright – get the rescue choppers up – Sound SAR Alert.”
“Aye Sir. Sounding alert,” responded another crewman in the dimly lit room.
A klaxon sounded across the fleet as the wreckage continued its rapid descent towards the virtual parking lot of warships in the straights of Shadwan.